


Close Call

by pirategirljack



Category: Stitchers (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:34:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4297920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirategirljack/pseuds/pirategirljack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't know, I dreamed this. My first Stitchers fic!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Call

In the tank, Kirsten went stiff and jerked her head to the side, her hands off the control pads and her brow furrowed in what looked like pain. “No,” Cameron breathed, visions of Marta’s last day as a Stitcher flickering before his eyes, “no no nononononoo”.

His hands flew over the controls, trying to normalize the readings, trying to even out whatever terrible thing she was going through. Nothing worked. 

“I’m bouncing her!” he yelled, and above the pit, Maggie said “Do it,” but he wasn’t waiting for her go-ahead, he was already doing it--

Nothing happened.

Except that Kirsten said “Cameron!”

He tried the bounce twice more, and when still nothing happened, he abandoned his station and went to the tank. It was dangerous to be close when the machine was on, but he wasn’t thinking about his own danger. She called his name again, and before he could think, his hands were in the tank with her, one hand finding her face and one finding her hand.

Someone shouted “no!” and a dozen alarms went off. There was a terrible sucking, tearing feeling--and he landed in a place that was far too bright, everything flickering and shifting and wobbling around him, snippets of time moving around him--and her. Kirsten was the only thing in perfect focus.

“Cameron--what’re you doing here?”

“I don’t know, this--this shouldn’t be possible. I came to help you and wound up here.”

“The sample’s degrading, we have to get out.”

“I tried. The bounce didn’t work. You were seizing, you couldn’t do it yourself.”

“I think I can, now.”

Everything was flashing and jiggling and melting one moment into another more than ever, and Kirsten took the few steps between them at a run. When she crashed into him, she wrapped her arms around him--and then they were both in their bodies, in the lab, alarms and people were everywhere. Cameron hit the ground and her heard a splash and choked gurgle from the tank. He tried to get up, to get to her, but the second he got even a little bit upright, the ground tilted under him and he passed out.

\---

The rest of the day was exhausting, and he went home and went right to sleep. But it wasn’t long before there was that distinctive banging at the door that could only be Kirsten. He scrabbled for his glasses and opened the door, but before he could say anything, she was through, dropping her bag and catching his hand to press it against her chest. “Something’s wrong with me,” she said.

Cameron stumbled backward, trying to pull his hand away, but she only gripped his forearm harder and move with him, keeping his hand over her heart. “Hey! What--” He tried again, and she moved with him again, and then his legs fetched up against a chair and he couldn’t move back any further.

“Something’s wrong, Cameron.”

“What’s wrong?”

She was clearly distressed, now that he was still and looking at her. Her eyes were wide and she looked like she’d been crying, or was about to. Her pale cheeks were pink. And her hand, holding his to her chest, was shaking.

“What’s wrong, Kirsten?”

“I thought you died,” she said, her voice low and wobbly, though she was trying to control it. “I thought you died because of me, and it hurt like breaking and it still hurts. Something broke in me and I feel like I’m going to die, too.” She moved a little closer.

Comprehension dawned. “Oh, no Kirsten, you’re fine, it’s just grief or fear--it’s residual emotion messing with your head again.”

“It’s not. It’s been there for a while, this ache, tightening up in my chest. And today--today when you were laying there, and they were working on you, and holding me back--it broke--”

“I’m okay, Kirsten. I just blacked out. I never should have been able to get into the splinter like that and it just overloaded me for a minute.”

“You stopped breathing. Did they tell you that?”

“I--no, they didn’t tell me.”

“You stopped breathing and I thought I’d killed you.”

He couldn’t help it. His traitorous hands gave him away again. He cupped her cheek, and it was his turn to move a little closer. She moved both her hands to his chest, but he left his other one on her heart, pounding so hard under her palm. “I’m fine. We’re both fine.”

“Then why does it still hurt?”

Cameron pushed some of her fine hair back behind her ear. “Sometimes if we’re not admitting that we’re feeling things, they get out of hand,” he said carefully.

“I don’t feel things. Feelings don’t make sense to me.”

“We both know that’s not strictly true anymore. You have baselines for emotions now. What is this one?”

“I--” she looked away, but instead of breaking contact like he expected her to, she moved closer again, so that her forehead almost brushed his lips, her cheek almost settled on his shoulder. “It feels like love,” she said, and he almost toppled over the back of the chair. He wasn’t expecting that at all. “I--love.”

“Kirsten…”

She looked up, then, straightened so they were almost on a level, and looked him dead in the eye. “I thought I lost you and it almost killed me.” And then she kissed him.

The surprises just kept coming. Not least of which, the way his arms snaked around her and pulled her close, the way his feet drew her backward, toward his bed, the way she pushed his shirt up and over his head and kissed his collarbones and pushed him backward onto his sleep-rumpled sheets.

They paused for a moment, and he dared to reach up and touch her face again to see if she was real, if this was really happening--and she was, and she smiled, and then there was no space for more wondering.


End file.
